D-Day Jitters
by tootooroo
Summary: "Calm your nuts. You staged a goddamn coup. You'll survive this." "I know. But back then there were no tens of TV broadcasters live-reporting us." "Actually, Sir, there will be only thirteen TV broadcasters covering the whole ceremony. The rest of them are, with their respective numbers, forty-five radio stations, ninety-seven news—" "I know, Vato."
1. To the groom

" _Calm your nuts. You staged a goddamn coup. You'll survive this." "I know. But back then there were no tens of TV broadcasters live-reporting us." "Actually, Sir, there will be only_ thirteen _TV broadcasters covering the whole ceremony. The rest of them are, with their respective numbers, forty-five radio stations, ninety-seven news—" "I_ know _, Vato."_

* * *

"Listen again, Boss. If you really, and by that I meant really really _really_ want to cancel the whole thing, you will just have to give me these signs..."

Havoc proceeded to wink at him three times before grabbing his own chest in a dramatic manner, likely to give everyone the impression of him getting a sudden heart attack. Which, obviously, would only gain him a futile result—his contorted face screamed ' _malingering!_ ' more than Mustang's sorry excuse of stomachaches everytime Hawkeye brought in another pile of paperworks requiring his review. _That_ alone already spoke volumes.

"It would be too telling, Havo."

The two men spun their head to see Breda entering the room. The door clicked shut behind him.

"Boss will only have to _accidentally_ slip his hand and make one of the rings—or both, just in case—fall onto the floor, then pick it up and hide it before anybody noticed. The ceremony will definitely be postponed shall we lose at least one of the things required for the rite. It will provide plenty space of time for the Boss to ad lib an exit strategy appropriate to the current circumstance."

A snort came from the blond. "You're entitled to your strategies, Heymans. But it is _me_ who got the experience of actually bringing a wedding ceremony into a halt—"

"Gentlemen, please. Save it for another time." Roy rubbed his temple, suddenly aware of the pain slowly building up there. He turned to the bulky man. "And no. I am not cancelling anything just because of some stupid pre-wedding jitters. Status report."

"As well as can be expected," he replied, "Everything had been put into places. Closest family and friends are seated on the first and second row. VVIP guests such as representatives of the congress, ambassadors to other countries, and several military generals are on the next two rows. All according to the protocol, yadda yadda. Same old song."

"And?"

"The only thing you should take note of would be that General Armstrong is seated at the west side of the aisle. It's only been half an hour of speeches—for formality's sake, really—and she already looked bored to death. Your ceremony won't take place in less than sixty minutes, and who knows how much worse her mood can be by that time. I suggest you avoid looking at that particular area during the procession. Better safe than getting your nerve wrecked by her wake."

"…I'll consider," came his reply, "Thank you. Is that all?"

He nodded.

Jean squished his cigarette butt onto the ashtray, ready to curse whichever uncultured swine let the cigarette remainings and ash piled up instead of emptying it halfway. He refrained from it, though, as he remembered _he_ was the only one using said ashtray since they finished dressing him up (really, they technically only wore their formal military blue—why on earth did they require stylists for that?)

"How's Ri?" He asked instead.

A loud _boof_ sound was heard as Breda plopped down on the armchair. "Would've known any better if only your girlfriend didn't make it clear; _Ladies only. Men getting past this point must be ready to give their masculinity up—I'll let you choose, by my knee or my leg?_ "

"Oh… yikes."

"I can always sabotage the communication devices available there, Sir,"

Fuery chimed in from where he was seated—at the corner of the room, hunched over yet another weird instrument he was working on. It didn't matter whether he was in charge of wiretapping a terrorist group, or accompanying a certain Fuhrer with some 'stupid pre-wedding jitters'. The kid had always had _anything_ to tinker. Anywhere, anytime. "We can hear what's happening over there using the cable phone in this room."

"For the sake of avoiding unnecessary commotion, Fuery, don't."

Breda straightened his back, patting his uniform a bit. "You're awfully quiet, Sir. Is something the matter?"

"How is that a problem?"

"I expected you to be more giddy at times like this."

"Experience taught us that keeping our emotion in check under any situation would almost always give us better outcomes."

"Yeah, yeah, said by the one who _cried_ when he was the one who _proposed_."

Havoc merely sneered when Roy gave him a sharp look. Fortunately, Breda still got enough courtesy to hide his laughter under the disguise of a cough.

Roy slumped indignantly in his seat. "Let's drop the subject for now," he remarked, cursing _how did this bastard find out_ under his breath.

There was silence for a moment, long enough for Roy to try calming his nerves.

It wasn't like he hadn't imagined walking down the aisle, her hand in his. Or spending the rest of his life with her—which was exactly what they had been doing all this time, frankly speaking, but then again, it would be different. They were not a foreign concept to him. After all, he had had planned everything the day he went to take the State Alchemist examination. _Get your certification. Go back. Confess to her. Give her the happy life she deserves—all while using your knowledge for the good._

(But then the war happened. And things got complicated afterwards.)

Sadly, mentally preparing himself did not make him actually prepared for _this_ moment. He had been calm as a cucumber for months, juggling between his new job as the Fuhrer (mostly) and making necessary arrangements for the big day (occasionally). He gave himself credits for that, at least. Yet, sixty minutes into it, and his mind started acting up like crazy—with a lot of _what if_ 's popping up out of nowhere.

Putting up a collected exterior was the most effective way for him to keep them under control. Roy guiltily admitted that he half-wished his mentor would be there, giving him free advices like he always did—not as a (former) superior officer, but as an old man who once lived a married life. Alas, said man was more interested in bragging about his granddaughter's wedding, as if there were not enough announcement regarding that already. Roy couldn't blame him, though.

His mother had helped him a _lot_ in this, that was for sure. Yet he couldn't help but to wish for a man-to-man talk, for someone who would relate to him. The other man he thought he could ask for advices couldn't even see his daughter being the flower girl to Roy's wedding.

And then there was Ed. But a particular shrimp chastising him on what to do and what not to do was the last thing he needed. He stopped his train of thought there.

"Bring me some wine," he asked, fiddling with the medals on his chest absent-mindedly (poor stylists would have to fix them later), his gaze fell on something faraway beyond the window.

"No," Havoc tried his best not to laugh at the groom's scowling face. "As your best man, I don't want you to get tipsy during the whole procession. Unless you want to blabber your drunk thoughts instead of reciting your vow, that is."

"Ha. Very funny."

Breda shuffled in his seat lazily. "Calm your nuts. You staged a goddamn coup. You'll survive this."

"I know. But back then there were no tens of TV broadcasters live-reporting us."

A knock on the door, and Vato Falman excused himself in before neither of them said anything. "Actually, Sir, there will be only _thirteen_ TV broadcasters covering the whole ceremony. The rest of them are, with their respective numbers, forty-five radio stations, ninety-seven news—"

"I _know,_ Vato."

The lieutenant suppressed a smile and saluted, "Your Excellency, Sir, representatives from The Amestris Post have requested to meet you for an interview. Currently their crews are gathering in the smaller hall, waiting for your approval."

"Would be nice for appearances, Sir," Breda suggested, "The Amestris Post has been dominating newspaper circulation in Amestris for the last few years, especially in big cities like Central and South. They have quite the reputation. Good credibility, too."

"What a chance to be missed." If Roy tried to fake enthusiasm, he had failed miserably. "Breda, you go."

He didn't need to be told twice before standing up from his seat and left the room with Vato.

"Jean, give me one of those."

"Wha—oh, this?" he held up his cigarette pack. Plucking out one for himself, he offered it to his commanding officer. "I don't remember the last time you smoked, Boss."

"Something to relieve the anxiety. You guys won't let me have my booze anyway." Roy fiddled with his cigarette for a while, tapping its butt three times against his armrest. He glared at Havoc after getting no response from him. "You think I'm a walking matchstick?"

Jean Havoc snickered as he handed him his matches.

"Sir, uh, I guess the Major— _Riza_ won't be pleased if she found out you smoke right before the ceremony."

Roy blew out the smoke. He seemed to cough a little, muttering _this tastes terrible_ to himself. (Havoc was not amused.) "Chill down, Kain, it's not like she will bring any of her firearms beneath her dress white." Fuery shot him an incredulous look. "…won't she?" He added, as an afterthought.

He turned to face the taller man, "I assume Catalina is sane enough not to allow her otherwise?"

"Dunno, Boss. My guess is no better than yours."

There was yet another knock on the door before a man's voice called, " _Your Excellency, Sir. There is someone proclaiming himself as Edward Elric requesting to see you._ _He—_ "

"Tell him to come back later," Roy cut in. "I still got things to—"

"NOW HOLD A SECOND!"

Mustang never get to finish his excuse as the door slammed open, revealing someone he was no stranger of.

Roy let out a heavy sigh, dismissing the security guards beginning to pry over the boy— _man_ , he corrected himself—outside the door treshold. _Here goes nothing_.

Edward Elric made his unceremonious entrance. "I didn't hop into the train from Liore—in a literal sense, thanks to Alphonse for telling me the wrong departure hour—just to get shooed by _you,_ Colonel Bastard." He plopped down on the armchair previously occupied by Breda. "You already look like shit. Don't try to also smell like one. Put that thing off."

"I would still look better in rags compared to _you_ in your suit, thank you very much." He put off his halfway-burnt cigar on the ashtray.

"Aren't you a little too old for a marriage anxiety, Mustang? Last time I checked, you two already seemed to be married for a long time in every possible means. Sans legally."

"If you are here just to give me 'advices', or rubbing your marriage life off my face, Fullmetal, the security guards are more than willing to drag you out."

"Cut the bullshit," he retorted, "been there done that. You need this right now. I'm planning to travel to Creta at some point after my kid's been born. I don't really care with the military whatsoever, but I wouldn't like the press there making Amestris their laugh stock just because its dumb Fuhrer fainted indignantly in his own wedding."

"I already have my groomsmen for that," he gestured to the other two men present in the room.

Fuery and Havoc exchanged a look, as if they were silently arguing who would point out the elephant in the room to their boss. Havoc won this round. Fuery sighed.

"Your Excellency, umm, actually…" he looked back to Jean who gave him a pointed look—then to Ed, only to receive a scowl—then back to Roy, "I think Edward is right. You look like you need a proper talk on this, and neither I nor the Captain know exactly what to say. But Ed had been through this, Sir. He can help."

Edward's triumphant sneer was met by Roy's disapproving face.

"Mm'kay then, Boss," Havoc stood up from where he was sitting, "I'm gonna wait for you outside. Let me know if you need anything. Ready or not, we'll have to be at the altar in half an hour. Come on, Kain."

The bespectacled man considered bringing his devices along, but failed to do so since Havoc had practically dragged him out by his sleeve.

The door was shut, giving the two men a semblance of privacy.

"What brought you here, exactly?"

"I met Mrs. Gracia and she asked me to come here and calm you down, because that's what Mr. Hughes would do." He said. _And because I know how nerve-wrecking this shit is and I want to make sure you old man won't die from it,_ he didn't say.

"He totally would," Roy snorted. "He surely missed a _lot_ of things. That idiot."

"Uh-huh," Ed replied, quite unsure of what to say next. "Got your vow memorized?"

The older man gave him an _are-you-fucking-kidding-me_ look, "To keep up with what my current job demands, I can memorize various speeches in one night—"

"No," he cut in. "You and your military ceremonial speeches are the last thing I'm concerned of. For this time only, Colonel Crap, don't be so full of yourself. How many times have you rehearsed it?"

Roy tried his best to hide his embarrassment— _he doesn't have to, really. It's useless_ , Ed thought—"Every night before I fall asleep. For three months straight. Sometimes after waking up, I do it too, just in case." He said in a low voice.

"Excellent." Ed seemed satisfied with his response. Then he flashed the most annoying grin Roy had seen in a while, "I only did it for a month and half. Cry for your loss, Mustang."

"Shut up. At least your wedding were _not_ covered by thirteen TV broadcasters, forty-five radio stations, and other ninety-seven news agencies—sixty-seven locals, thirty from the neighboring countries. Give me some credits, you Pipsqueak."

"WHO ARE YOU CALLING MICROSCOPIC BIOTA THAT YOU NEED TO USE A HIGH-POWERED MICROSCOPE TO SEE IT—"

Mustang had to convince the security guards that'd barged in there, poising their guns, that the kid meant no harm to him.

"Really," Ed complained as the fuss had been cleared. "How could you live in such a tight security it's almost suffocating?"

"Necessary measures. More people tend to aim their crosshair at your head when you're here on the top."

"Attention-seeker," the blond muttered.

"Not gonna break a habit of a lifetime."

"Regardless," Ed tried to direct their conversation back to the right track, "media coverage or not, this too will eventually pass. It might looks enormous and frightening now. But it will end before even you knew it."

Roy spared him an incredulous glance, "are _you_ trying to offer _me_ encouragement now, Fullmetal?"

"You fucktard, just take it or leave it. I won't be kind enough to give you another."

Ed _swore_ he would had choked his former commanding officer along with his irritating laughter were it not for the security guards surrounding the room they were in.

"That Winry girl sure had knocked some sense into your head. I assume she has taken her seat by now?"

"Of course. Alphonse is with her right now. She's very pregnant, but she's fine."

"The earth will be an interesting place with not one, not two, but _three_ of your devil spawns, just you wait."

" _Shut up._ " Edward crossed his metal leg. "How's Major—uh, _Riza_ —doing, anyway?" Well, it was rather weird for him not to refer to her by her rank anymore, but it couldn't be helped. She had resigned from the military several weeks prior, and insisted him to call her 'just Riza' since.

His face softened at the mention of her name, Ed noticed.

"I… don't know. I hope she's doing better than me. She always did."

"…you _don't_ know?"

"Pardon me, but I've got a conference at Aerugo to attend since last week, and somebody had to stay behind for the preparation. I just arrived here last night and hadn't seen her since, because a _certain old man_ insisted that it was a taboo for the groom and bride to see each others on the day of their marriage before the procession took place. Old wives' tales." He paused for a moment. "I did make a phonecall before I depart for here, though. She insisted that she was fine… I hope it was really the case."

The elder Elric couldn't help but to make a face. "It looks hard when your life is not only yours to live."

"It _does,_ " he sounded really convincing, "but we knew what we signed up for. Couldn't ask for more, honestly."

"Yep." Ed looked at the clock, then straightened his suit. He only intended to give the man a brief visit, but it was as if the time passed quicker in that room relative to the rest of the world. "So you hadn't seen her since, what, last week?"

"So it seems."

"Beware, Mustang," he lowered his voice for the sake of sounding more dramatic, "Let alone not seeing her for a week—when she's there, in her dress white, make sure to keep your head level or you'll be thrown off your seat. I'm serious—I don't know the history behind women and their dress white but the moment they wear it, you're done for."

Roy let out a crisp laugh. "You think I didn't see your dumb face when Winry walked down the aisle?"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Let's see which one of us makes the dumber face—I'm gonna bet for your glorious defeat, of course. Oh, look at the time. Better get going now."

Ed stood up and made some necessary adjustments to keep his appearance neat. Winry had made it clear that she wanted him to look proper for the day. He couldn't help but to compel.

Mustang looked at him for a moment in silence. The boy looked like he was thinking of something thoroughly. The furrow of his brows, the way his fists clenched—some things just never changed, after all. (Just like the way he called him _Colonel Bastard_ , despite all the promotions he had achieved.)

"One more thing, Colonel Bastard. Take note because I won't say it again." he finally said, the word had been hanging at the tip of his tongue for quite a while.

 _Inhale. Exhale._

"Be happy, the two of you. I don't pretend to know the bad things you had gone through. And I won't even testify for your innocence should anything bad happen but… please. Even _you_ deserve it. Make _her_ happy. And if anything bad happened to her, I swear, not even these—" he gestured to their surroundings. Roy assumed he was referring to his security guards at the other side of the walls. "—guys can stop me from kicking you in the ass. With my metal leg. Mark my words."

Roy gaped at his sermon for a moment, but he quickly gathered his composure back. A genuine smile graced his expression, "Please do, Edward."

The knock on the door was a blessing for Edward Elric because, really, he didn't know what kind of expression he should wear after saying all those things to Roy. He seldom showed the man his emotions openly, and he was not about to change that fact.

"Oh, Chief, you're still here? We're about to start." Havoc appeared from behind the door. The stylists certainly did an amazing job at concealing the fact that he had been smoking there for hours.

He turned to face his commanding officer, offering a hand to help him getting on his feet. Roy took a deep breath.

"C'mon, Boss. Ready or not, here we go."

* * *

 _Fic took place in the same setting as my other two fics **Monologues** and **Do you even have to ask?**_

 _Currently torn between posting a second chapter and keeping this a one-shot. Should I...?_

 _Thank you for reading! Reviews would be highly appreciated XD_


	2. To the bride

_"How's Major—uh,_ _Riza_ _—doing, anyway?"_

 _"I… don't know. I hope she's doing better than me. She always did."_

 _"…you_ _don't_ _know?"_

* * *

 _Nobody is in their correct mind on their wedding day_ —she reminded herself over and over, like a mantra chanted inside those sacred temples of her mind.

Rebecca Catalina had always had the honour to be one of the very few people who had seen the notoriously stoic Riza Hawkeye in her ups and downs. She had been there (much to her amusement) during Riza's extremely rare hangovers. She had always been the one stroking her blonde hair, patting her on the back while she wept silently into her shoulder. Heck, Rebecca even managed to handle her best friend after she came back from the nightmare called Ishval (though she rather kept that particular memory at bay.)

But not _this_. Never this. And it was driving the brunette crazy.

Which was exactly why she was there, one hand on her hip while fiddling a mascara with the other.

" _Rebecca,_ " she said sternly.

 _Inhale. Exhale. Keep your composure._ "No. And you can keep glaring at me like that for the next one hour because, you know what, my answer would always be the same; _hell no_. Yeah, go fight me."

Riza wanted to pull her hair in frustration, but doing so will utterly destroy her hairdo those stylists had worked on for hours. Covering her face with her hands, and the make up Rebecca nearly finished would be at stake. Thus she opted to curl her fingers into clenches in an agonizingly slow motion.

"You can _not_ strip a sniper of their firearms!"

"Sorry, Major—scratch-that— _Miss_ Hawkeye, but you are stripped of your right to handle any kind of firearms when you resigned from the military _five weeks_ ago."

"But I still retain my gun certification!"

"Then I'm revoking it!" Rebecca retorted, the words _I'm-so-done-with-this_ plastered on her expression _,_ "Well, at least for now. And don't give me your lame _but-I-have-to-watch-his-back-from-dangers_ angsty bullshit. You reviewed the goddamn security algorithm yourself. Just so you know, the budget allocation for today's security system is at least _twice_ bigger than the total amount of money we spent for your grandpop's entire inauguration ceremony. So, _no_. Gun certification or not, you're not bringing anything beneath your gown."

Her face fell, shoulders slumped in defeat. Rebecca was afraid she was going to cry uncharacteristically, but honestly, better now than after she applied the mascara. Smeared make-up, she can touch it up in a few minutes. But smeared mascara? Catalina was willing to delay the entire procession instead should that happened.

Sighing, she made her way to sit beside the former officer. As silly as it was, if there was anything Riza would seek comfort in everytime her anxiety decided to make an appearance, it would be her guns and whatever came with them. Rebecca couldn't blame her for that—she had seen how her best friend clinged into her sniper rifle as if her entire life depended on it (in a more serious notion, it really did.) She had even considered to let her carry just _one_ to the altar, for everything seemed to much for her friend (and for _her_ , too, frankly speaking) to handle. _Dammit, I almost had let her,_ she internally confessed.

But Rebecca Catalina was experienced in breaking many rules—more than enough for her to know _not_ to break this one.

"C'mon, Ri," Rebecca softly called out to her, poking her arm in a playful manner. "You're just nervous. You can do this, okay?"

"It's just… wrong. I feel as naked as a newborn," she mumbled.

"Oh, you absolutely will, Dear. Tonight after everything's wrapped up. And that flame boy of yours would be more than pleased."

"Rebecca!"

"Yeah, sorry, sorry," chuckling, she snaked an arm around her waist, "I mean, the sexual tension between you two is sometimes too palpable I can't help but to bring _it_ up now that it's not really illegal anymore! Say, are you _sure_ you guys had never fucked before?"

Riza looked at her in dismay.

"Even if I did—which I did _not_ , anyway, not while I was working under his command—" _not while I was working under his command_ , the ambiguous context that came with it didn't go unnoticed, "—I wouldn't narrate them the way you did _yours_ , Beck."

"Hey, what's wrong with that?"

"You _don't_ know," Hawkeye made an audible sigh, "you don't know how hard it was for me to look at Jean in the eyes everytime I talk to him during work hours when you guys first started dating. He thought I was mad at him or something."

"How could—oh… No. No way, you naughty, _naughty Rizzie_ ,"

"As if it was my fault. Your description was way too graphic, for your information."

Rebecca bursted into laughter.

"Yeah, yeah. But I succeeded, didn't I?"

"At what?"

"Making a nervous bride forgetting her wedding day nerves, perhaps?"

Her lips curled into a small smile as Rebecca hummed in approval beside her.

But Riza quickly shook her head as the somber mood started crawling back in, "I don't know if this was really for me, Beck. Even if it was… I don't even know if I can pull it off,"

" _You_? Can _not_ pull it off? Ex-fucking-cuse me, but have you seen _this_?" Rebecca stood up and moved to stand behind her friend's sitting figure, turning her to face the full length mirror on one side of the wall. "See? If this was not for you, you wouldn't had spent the past months wearing yourself out preparing for _this_ moment…"

She was quite a sight, really. And Rebecca didn't say that merely because she was a supportive best friend who would say anything to relieve her anxiety. A bun wrap decorated with pearl beadings held her silky blonde hair in a messy updo. The brocade hugged her curves perfectly, with intricate floral embroideries around her waist. Downwards were fabrics layered into a ball gown. Big brown eyes, and plump, red-tinted lips— _that Mustang guy sure was a lucky bastard_ , she pondered.

Though she did take pride on her make up work (Rebecca had been the one dolling Riza up in nearly all occasions requiring such attires—like _hell_ she was going to let someone else doing it for her big day,) she admitted, it was _the_ bride herself contributed the biggest to make her looked radiant.

The brunette looked at her perplexed eyes reflected in the mirror, all the way down to her neckline, her ball gown, heels, trains, then back to her face—"Riza Mustang, the First Lady of Amestris, and, despite the strict upbringing I know you will apply, still a no less good mother to her children, and—oh,"

Rebecca decided, then, that she didn't want smeared make up as much as she didn't want smeared mascara.

Careful not to destroy anything—except her make up, sadly, for it was already in a dire need for a touch up—she pulled her friend in a tight embrace. Suddenly it was just like the old times—her face on her shoulder, hand patting her back in silence. _I'm sorry. Please. You're okay. I'm_ sorry _._

If she was being honest, Rebecca preferred to deal with Riza throwing tantrums or giving her icy glares that could freeze furnace. She hated being in this position when her seemingly-impassive friend clearly showed her distress, yet told her nothing.

She knew what made her upset, but at the same time, she did _not_. She understood how she might felt, but she also couldn't relate.

 _Just like this one_.

Riza's place had always been in that one spot casted aside where nobody could notice her. Whether it was on a watch tower with her scope, or two steps behind Mustang's back, she worked best from where she couldn't be seen. Then all of a sudden, she was shoved into the center of attention. She was expected to be there _with_ him in the spotlight, instead of lurking in the shadows he casted.

 _Too sudden. And certainly too many eyes are watching._

A sane Riza Hawkeye would had handled it just fine, a goddamn rational she was. _Maybe with several adjustments at best_ , Rebecca corrected herself. Yet she knew, the Riza Hawkeye who had spent the past few months preparing for something _this_ big mostly by herself ( _damn the Fuhrer and his presidential duties_ ) is far from a sane Riza Hawkeye.

Yeah, let alone the one being covered nation-wide with _thousands_ of guests—arranging a wedding itself was already a hassle, if her friends' testimonies were to be trusted. In hindsight, they _were_.

Rebecca had been occupied by her own job in the office that she only managed to keep tabs on her and offered her suggestions via phonecall frequently—and even that was enough for her to recognize the extent of Riza's distress. Catalina was glad her commanding officer compelled to her… _request_ , when she asked for a two-weeks leave. God knew she was willing to break yet another rule should that snobbish superior officer of hers did otherwise because _Lord, I'm not gonna leave this poor girl alone any longer_.

She understood.

But she didn't. Both at the same time.

So she just sat there, trying her best to offer her friend some comfort. Riza had rarely been the one to talk her problems through—not with her, at least, she begrudgingly admitted—and Rebecca knew, under this condition, the only thing that could soothe her was a good night sleep in amiable silence. And by the following morning, she would be back to the reasonable, no-nonsense Riza Hawkeye.

The problem? They had to be ready in less than an hour. So a good night sleep was off the options.

Rebecca was cursing her helplessness in silence when the door clicked open.

A rather bulky woman with long, curly black hair appeared from the threshold, making her way to where they were sitting at in a deliberate gait. She was wearing burgundy dress inside a furry coat, she noticed, flashy necklace decorated her neck down to her chest. Rebecca was about to deem her outfit too eccentric—even by _her_ standard—for a formal ceremony (which already spoke volumes, really) if she hadn't been busy being intimidated by said woman's presence. This middle-aged lady was not from the military, that was for sure— _but why does she look strangely familiar?_

"Am I interrupting something here?"

Riza's shoulders tensed up for a second as she recognized the voice. "No, Madame Christmas," she answered, her hands frantically searching and grabbing for anything she can wipe her tears off with. (Rebecca noticed she considered using her own wedding gown for that. It was a fortune she didn't.)

 _Hold a sec…_ that _Madame Christmas?!_

The woman's voice was raspy when she called out, "Rebecca Catalina, is it? The bridesmaid?"

She nodded.

"Let me handle her," she continued, "you go get that—" pointing at her bare, make-up-stained shoulder, "—thing fixed."

"I—right away, ma'am," taking a good look at the bride's recently messy face, she corrected, "uh, actually, I'm sorry but… it seems that I have to redo this one first,"

If she was any less dignified, the Madame would have _snorted_.

"And by 'her', I was also referring to that. It's alright. Those girls had to learn to do their nightly make up from someone, after all."

Rebecca paused for a moment, considering what to do next before she stood up from her seat in a swift motion. She gripped Riza's shoulders to give her a semblance of reassurance. Their eyes locked—it was as though hers were saying _I will see you later_ and _good luck with this_ combined.

She left the room after hovering around the door threshold for a little longer than what was necessary.

Madame Christmas collected everything she required to do her face at the other side of the room in silence. It wasn't long before she was already seated in front of her, a whole box of cosmetics in her hands.

If she dared to describe it, Riza thought, she would say it was really… awkward.

Yes, they had met each others from time to time for years already. Be it arranging a coup d'etat or a wedding, the Madame had been a great help. But Roy had always been there—frankly speaking, it was more like Roy and his mother, and then _she_ was there in the background, giving her occasional remarks. This woman had already had her respect for quite a long time. Riza knew her very well.

But apparently, still not well enough for her to become comfortable facing the Madame one-on-one.

"Spill,"

The word came rather unexpectedly—well, not that _anything_ was within expectation, as far as the Madame was concerned. Riza only managed to give her a confused blink in response.

"I didn't work as an information broker for nothing. _Now_ is the chance for you to tell me what troubles you and let it all out, before I decided to point them out one by one."

Madame Christmas continued to do the younger woman's face as she waited for her to speak her mind out.

 _Wipe this part off. Several strokes of brush here._

Seconds turned into minutes, yet her face remained impassive—funny, really, with those trails of tears on her cheeks—a perfect mask to cover whatever turmoil existed beneath. Christmas quietly sighed; Roy wasn't exaggerating anything when he told her that his (former) adjutant was very, _very_ private, keeping her thoughts and feelings close to her chest.

Chris Mustang finally decided to give in before minutes turned into hours.

"My son is very fond of you, you know,"

She did.

"Whenever he came home for a short break during his alchemy apprenticeship, his stories mostly consisted of _my master's daughter this_ and _my master's daughter that_ … and he did that for years. I knew you like your tea with two spoonful of sugar and no milk _years_ before we actually met."

The words tugged the corners of her lips upwards.

"Even in his academy days, he still liked to recount the letters his master's daughter sent him in his writings. Not once, not twice… quite frequent, in fact. But his master's daughter suddenly vanished into thin air when he was shipped off to war." She paused for a while, scrutinizing her face to the tiniest details, "…I will drop this subject here. Neither of us would like to talk about that _now_.

"My point is, whether it was his master's daughter, or Elizabeth, or Captain Hawkeye—you two have been together for a long time. As bothersome as it is, this whole marriage ordeal shouldn't bring any difference."

In her mind, Riza was mulling those words over. But for not too long—eventually she found herself lost in her own train of thoughts. _Why is_ she _here now? Did Roy send her? Or was it Mrs. Gracia?_ She wasn't sure of what to say next—

As if she was stung by a wasp, Christmas suddenly drew herself away from her, her eyes narrowed. Much to Hawkeye's bewilderment.

"My Roy-boy can stand there dumbfounded, thinking that his bride had left him at the altar because I am not letting you go if my whole speech just now actually turned into a monologue. I don't really talk much—show me some courtesy for my efforts."

It took every attempts she had to keep her brown eyes fixed on the Madame's.

"I'm sorry, Madame. I didn't want to make your job any harder by talking and moving my face," she finally reasoned.

"Still not a good enough excuse. Try again."

"I—"

Madame Christmas' gaze was unfazed.

Riza swallowed a lump she didn't know had been forming behind her throat. Her eyes frantically searched for anything, _anything except the Madame's eyes_ , to look at, like a chameleon with a den of snakes preying on it nearby. It was when her survival instinct kicked in (was it due to a fight-or-flight response?)—

 _Don't move. Stare at a fixated point. Breathe deeply three times._ Something the military taught to the new recruits to keep their fear under control.

Accordingly, she did as such, and _thank God and whatever good up there_ , it worked.

"I… I'm sorry. This isn't me. People told me it's just the cold-feet but…" she cleared her throat before her sentence turned into nonsensical ramblings, "it's not the wedding per se… but the changes that follow. I don't think I'm ready for it. I can't help but to keep second-guessing myself."

The woman looked at her in an unreadable way. She continued to do her job as she quietly spoke, "Like I said, Riza. Despite everything, nothing much will change. And you knew what you're into when you both made this decision,"

"I _know_ , Madame," the sensible Riza will kick herself later for interrupting the Madame, "we know the consequences. It's just… unnerving, to put it that way. The change. I've been a soldier for years. I've been hiding behind his back, watching it, for as far as I can remember.

"But today onwards, there will be only ceremonial duties shoved onto my plate. Organizing and attending official ceremonies, charitable works, campaigns—he's already used to doing public services, and suddenly people expect me to be there with him. Or to be there on my own. It's overwhelming."

There. She said it.

(Just then, Riza understood how Madame Christmas managed to maintain her business for tens of years.)

She nodded in understanding.

"I see," came her reply, "Amestris is a rather conservative country. It was a wonder your grandfather managed to get through without having one," Chrismas paused and smudged the corner of the eyeshadows using her finger, "looking at Mrs. Bradley, and the one before her several years prior, it can't be helped that the people perceipt their First Lad—"

"Don't say those words," Riza cut in. "…please," she added, as an afterthought.

The elder woman quirked her brow. _So that was why_ , she assumed, but compelled to her wish nonetheless.

"Change is indeed frightening," she voiced after a while, "but we never know what lies ahead. Change is not always bad. The biggest thing that altered my life abruptly happened more than thirty years ago after learning about my brother's, and his wife's, unfortunate demise."

Riza thought she knew where their conversation pointed to. But she also thought it would be wiser not to say anything.

"I took the toddler they left behind under my care. In retrospect, it was nowhere near any propriety—I had been running a small hostess bar by that time. Not an exactly fitting environment to raise a kid, obviously. But we adjusted. It wasn't easy, I remind you, but I accepted the way it changed my life. You know him, and you know how he was— _is_ a pain in the arse to deal with.

"But it was altogether the best decision I ever made—Amestris wouldn't have their incumbent Fuhrer if I did not,"

Using her fingers, Madame Christmas lifted Riza's chin and turned it slightly to the left-and-right, admiring her work for a moment before she went on.

"You look like you still got something to say. Spill it out. We don't have much time left."

Hawkeye prided herself on her ability to hide most of her thoughts, but she _swore_ , this woman in front of her secretly possessed a psychic ability.

"I—" she paused as the Madame smeared more lipstick, "Just something every brides thinks of when they are doubting themselves. I… I don't know if I really can make him happy—"

Christmas pressed the powder puff on her cheek with a little more force than what was necessary.

"Happiness is something you have to work on. _Both_ of you have to actively make the efforts. Don't make my boy's job harder with that negative attitude of yours."

Putting everything back to the box, she dusted her hands clean in a satisfied manner. "There. It's all done."

Riza turned to face the mirror and she admitted, the Madame wasn't lying when she said something about teaching those girls to do their make up.

She was about to open her mouth, thanking the madame, when she felt a hand on her shoulder. Turning back, Madame Christmas was looking straight at her—yet, strangely, it didn't feel as intimidating as she thought it was.

"I've never been good with emotions, but do you feel better?"

 _More than better_ , she wanted to voice. As someone who preferred to internalize her problems and feelings a lot, she didn't know how talking them through could actually make her relieved. She felt like a heavy load she wasn't aware was there had been lifted from her shoulders, a figurative stone chained onto her leg, weighing her down, suddenly became nonexistent.

A glowing smile graced her lips as she finally said, "I do, Madame. Thank you very much. I owe you this—along with everything I can't mention one by one."

"Take good care of my son and we're even," she replied in a-matter-of-factly while standing up from her seat, "I think it's time. Your grandfather had been waiting for quite a while."

The retired general came out from behind the then-closed door, walking in with a smile plastered on his old face.

"Not too long ago, Chris. Captain Catalina wouldn't let me in until she was sure you're done already," _how insubordinate of her_ , he murmured.

Christmas shrugged, "just make sure you do this right," she said. A brief seconds passed before the woman decided to make her way out, "I will be on one of the benches,"

Grumman merely shook his head. _Same old, same old._ "Now _this_ is weird… handing off my granddaughter to a man who's been with her way longer than _I_ even know her." She threw him an apologetic smile.

"Let's go, shall we?" He called out, offering his hand to his only remaining bloodline.

"Yes, Sir." Riza accepted his hand in a proper stance. _Just like the rules instructed_.

She couldn't see it as they were walking out of the room, down to the hallway, but from his voice—disheartened, with a tinge of disappointment he tried to conceal—Riza knew the elderly man holding her hand was already making a face.

"I told you to call me just Grandpa, Riza. I'm even retired now—no excuse left for you to keep calling me that."

 _Change is not always bad._

Riza let out a small smile and shook her head,

"One step at a time… _Grandfather._ "

* * *

 _Do you guys know how hard it was to write Madame Christmas? Well, I didn't, until I re-read and re-write this chapter a million of times, yet I still feel I can't do her character justice. Sorry. I'm sorry sobs. Please do tell me where I went wrong DX_

" _I hope she's doing better than me. She always did." Newsflash Roy-boy, she was not, and that's the irony of this chap lol. I hope Riza wasn't too OOC here, but if she was, uh, may I use that '_ _nobody is in their correct mind on their wedding day' excuse?_

 _Yes, I still tagged this fic as incomplete, just you wait… *winks* and if I ever posted any third chapter at all, maybe that one will be the last._

 _Thank you for reading! :D_


	3. The Amestris Times

**THE AMESTRIS TIMES**

" **If that was all it took for that boy to actually make a move, I would have resigned from the office a long time ago": Former Fuhrer General Grumman (Ret.) on his granddaughter's and Fuhrer Mustang's Wedding**

His Excellency Fuhrer Roy Mustang and Major Riza Mustang née Hawkeye (Ret.), now the First Lady of Amestris, have been married at Newport Plaza in Central City.

Tens of thousands of people lined the streets of Central to catch a glimpse of the couple and millions of people were estimated to stay tuned to the proceedings worldwide on television and radio.

Fuhrer Mustang wore the formal uniform of the State Military of Amestris and the First Lady wore a dress designed by couture designer Alicia Morand, whose family has been in charge of the Armstrong family's wardrobe for generations.

As the Fuhrer and his bride were getting ready to walk down the aisle, The Amestris Times took time to get some insight on the highs and lows of their tens of years of relationship.

"It's about time, really. Having seen both of them through thick and thin, I suppose none of us would say we didn't see this coming," commented Captain Heymans Breda, in lieu of the Fuhrer himself as he was unavailable for interviews at the moment.

When asked regarding the nature of their relationship during their times serving together under the Amestrian Military, the Captain said, "It was rather complicated. They had known each others for years before His Excellency enlisted, and she remained under his command ever since the Civil War ended. Their reciprocal devotion rooted in the similarity of their visions; that is, to make Amestris a better country for its people and the next generations. Both of them are married to Amestris first and each others second, and nothing can change that. Rest assured, as far as _I_ was concerned, their relationship didn't cross any lines of propriety drawn by the military regulations."

He refused to clarify any of the now-retired General Grumman's ambiguous words, which strangely contradicted Captain Breda's statement just then, concerning his granddaughter's wedding.

"The fact that they are related by blood itself was classified with only a handful of people knowing before the engagement made it to the news," he disclosed instead. Captain Breda excused himself before the crews could inquire him any further.

The Amestris Times managed to get some words from General Olivier Mira Armstrong at some point after the groom and bride had been officially announced as husband and wife.

"She had been cleaning his mess for as far as I can remember. Alas, now she will also have to be there to catch him when that sorry excuse of a Fuhrer trips his useless arse and falls from his bed," the Ice Queen remarked before walking away—but not before asking the crews not to censor any of her words.

Alphonse Elric, on the other hand, said nothing but good deeds for the newlyweds.

"They are very protective of each others. I know this is hardly the end, and that new challenges will keep coming up, but I do wish both of them a merry future ahead," he said while flashing the crews a warm smile.

When asked whether _he_ would hold another large-scale wedding with the Xingese princess he had in tow in near future, they turned red and excused themselves.

 ** _First Lady of Amestris?_**

"Mrs. Mustang had been a model soldier both in the office and battlefield. She is diligent, effective, strict, and organized, but despite those traits that gained her the reputation of being 'cold-hearted' or 'stoic', she is a no less compassionate woman, taking care of her comrades every now and then," First Lieutenant Vato Falman, also one of the groomsmen, declared.

"I can assure you that she will be able to carry on with her new duties and keep up with the utmost expectation," he added.

Another military officer nearby, Major Maria Ross, gladly agreed to give the crews her one-cent.

"I understand the people are thrilled with the idea of a new First Lady and since we didn't have one during Fuhrer Grumman's administration, the former First Lady Mrs. Bradley would be the most feasible comparison. Although sudden changes concerning the role would be considered unfavorable as they can disrupt a handful of affairs, it would be unwise not to expect any difference. With the same good intentions Mrs. Bradley had, Mrs. Mustang will have her own way to fulfill her new role, and I hope we can give her our best support despite it all."

 ** _R. Mustang and R. Mustang_**

Little is known regarding their personal information aside that they had been working together for years.

Fuhrer Roy Mustang proposed to Riza Mustang née Hawkeye on his inauguration night as the Fuhrer of Amestris and made it an official announcement ten days later. The following week Mrs. Riza Mustang resigned from her position as his aide and subsequently, the next month, from the military.

The proposal itself didn't come as shock to anyone. Neither the Fuhrer nor his then-fiancée were available for interviews to provide any information regarding anything during their wedding preparation period. **(AW)**

* * *

"What is _this_?"

His obisidian eyes fluttered open. Roy shuffled lazily inside the blanket and stretched, silently questioning himself _why is_ she _here in my room_ before the memory from last night made it to the surface of his half-conscious mind—

 _Oh. Wow. How awesome_. He smirked.

"Good morning to you, too," he said sleepily. Yawning, Roy pulled down the thick fabric just enough for him to peek outside.

 _She_ was there, standing in front of their bed's end table, her face slightly pulled into a frown clearly showing her dismay. Her hazel eyes were already focused, scrutinizing every letters on a newspaper she was holding. An oversized shirt— _his_ uniform shirt, he realized—clung onto her figure, the buttons were done haphazardly the way a pre-schooler on sugar rush did it. The shirt length ended right at the middle of her thigh.

Suddenly, the indisputable Roy Mustang couldn't make up his mind—whether he liked his shirt better on _her_ , or tossed aside to the floor, he didn't know.

Hence he decided to indulge in the sight presented in front of him _only_.

"Have you read this?" she held up the newspaper she had been clutching before for him to read.

 ** _The Amestris Times_**

 ** _Evening Edition: The Fuhrer's Wedding Special_**

"I have," Roy propped up on one elbow, "After you fell asleep, which is _right_ after, you know…" there were hints in his words as he flashed a lopsided grin, wiggling his eyebrows while doing so.

"After we fucked for three consecutive rounds last night. Please, Roy. We're both adults here," she deadpanned, "besides, it was hardly my fault. The day was exhausting. I was exhausted. _We_ were exhausted. I didn't know how you still managed to have _that_ much stamina left."

His laughter was a pleasant sound for Riza's ears.

" _You_ seemed to enjoy it, _Lieutenant_ ,"

"I recall you enjoyed _it_ too _, Sir,_ "

"Nope. I enjoyed _you,_ "

She sat down on the bed and smacked the newspaper playfully onto his bare chest in response. "Didn't they ask for your permission before proceeding with these articles?"

"Yesterday was a hassle. I let the team to deal with that, so I just read it after this was published," Roy lay down, his back against the soft fabric of the white sheet, one hand holding the newspaper as he skimmed through the words while his other hand pulled his wife into a cuddle. "Besides, I don't see anything wrong with them,"

Riza pointed at a section of the front page, "this," she said.

Roy read the text written on it;

 ** _First Lady of Amestris?_**

He quirked a brow. "How is this a problem?" the man inquired.

She let out a long, audible sigh. "First Lady _this_. First Lady _that_. We are married for barely a day, and they're already attributing it to me as if I had been one for the first half of my life,"

Tossing aside the wrinkled newspaper, Roy turned to his side. He squeezed her into a tight embrace and buried his face in her blonde hair, inhaling the lavender scent it casted.

"Just another one to add to the long list of titles they gave us," he said in reassurance, stroking her back. His fingers traced where the snake carved onto her back in red, the lines, the writings—they hovered on where her skin became prominent beneath the white shirt, disrupting the perfect array he had known like the back of his hand. "I've dragged you along to face worse. Much worse. You will manage," he whispered.

"I know. How foolish I was… letting something as trivial as _this_ gave me D-day jitters, made me nearly losing my mind prior to the procession," her voice was muffled as she buried her face into his chest, arms wrapped firmly around him.

Roy pulled back and gave her a funny look. "D-day jitters?"

"That anxious feeling you get on _the_ big day and not the days before."

"You've got some unique naming sense,"

"Please come back when yours is better than mine," she replied. Riza took a quick glance to the clock on the wall—fifteen minutes to seven, she noted—and wiggled herself free from his arms.

Really, it was hard not to laugh at his child-like pouty face, she thought.

"Wake up, Sir," she commanded, pulling the blanket from— _oh_. How could she forgot that he was wearing practically nothing.

There he was, the _mighty_ Fuhrer Roy Mustang, sprawled indignantly on the sheets without even a single thread on him.

It was the reflex that forced her to look up.

…only to meet that smirk, _that_ damnable smirk of his…

Riza turned away and tried her best not to turn red.

"Ready for round four already, hm, _Lieutenant_?" he breathed, voice dripping with innuendo. "I don't see the point of turning away when you've seen and _felt_ every inches of _it_ for the whole night—"

He was cut in by a pillow smacked right onto his face.

…and then another one onto his manhood. _Hard_.

"Round four can wait. You have work in eight-hundred hours, _Sir_. Now please excuse me as I relish another hours of sleep I deserve," Laying on her stomach, Riza covered her head with another pillow and pulled the blanket up to her shoulders.

"How could you get to rest and _I_ have to work _right_ the day after the wedding?"

"I already prepared the uniform for you to wear. They are hanged in the closet, you'll just have to put it on. Your boots are polished. Breakfast can be served starting seven hundred hours—bless the Fuhrer's residence and its facilities,"

 _Diligent, effective, strict, and organized._

"You haven't even told me about your schedule!"

"My first ceremonial task will be held the day after tomorrow, Roy. After all, _I_ have to take care of the clean-up works—paying off the fees and all—and the vendors won't start coming till eleven," she said from beneath the pillows—the soft, _comfortable_ pillows.

"Slavedriver," he muttered.

"Several things don't change just because I stopped being your adjutant, Sir,"

Riza couldn't comprehend whatever witty remarks he said in response, since she was too busy, too engaged in enjoying her soft, warm pillows on her bed. _Their_ bed.

The last thing she vaguely remembered before drifting into deep sleep were a kiss placed on her forehead, and the sound of the door clicked shut.

* * *

' _Sup. As I promised—the third, and the last, chapter of this fic._

 _I experimented in writing in a news-like style… I hope I didn't jinx it_ and _the scene after it!_

 _Thanks for everyone reviewing, your words are always the highlight of my days ;w;_

 _Aaaand lastly, thanks for dropping by and reading my fic!_


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